Джеймс Паттерсон - The Black Book

Ninety minutes later, Kim was back at her office in Dearborn Park. Another text from Kate:

This is bullshit

I was beginning to feel the same way, and my lack of progress on Kim’s surveillance had me pretty agitated already. The word Stop was still typed into my phone from the last time Kate had texted me.

This time, I hit the Send button. And took a breath. Steeled myself for the counterpunch. I was pretty sure Kate wouldn’t enjoy being told to stop anything.

Nothing, on any front, for the next ninety minutes, as the sun sank below the buildings in the South Loop and dusk began to cover the sky. Nothing from Kim, and nothing from Kate.

Then my phone buzzed again. Another message from Kate.

See anything u like?

Another photograph attached. Another selfie. Kate, inside her hot-red Corvette, naked except for a leather jacket spread open generously for a nice view. Yet again, a photo worthy of a porn website, the third one she’d sent me.

But this time there was one difference: in her right hand she was holding her service weapon against her temple.

It hit me hard, a clash of cymbals between my ears, a hot spear to my stomach. She knew very well how my wife had died.

Kate was coming unglued. Something was happening. I didn’t know what. But I couldn’t ignore it.

At that moment, Kim Beans left her office and walked to her car.

Shit . I had to stay with Kim. Tomorrow was the day her next photo was set to be published. If she was meeting her source, it would be between now and tomorrow morning. I couldn’t leave her side now. Not now .

I typed, but erased, several messages into my phone.

That’s not funny

I hope you’re joking

Don’t do anything rash

None of them felt right. I threw my car into gear as Kim sped away in her car. I hastily typed Talk soon I promise and hit Send. It wasn’t the perfect message, but it would have to do.

I didn’t know whether she was playing me or in real distress. I hoped that I would have the chance to find out.

Seventy-Five

I STEPPED out of the car, shifting my weight from one foot to the other, trying to keep warm. It was long past dusk, and the air stung my face. I couldn’t remember the last time it had been so cold in early April. It was so cold that the prostitutes were charging money to blow on your hands.

I was in a strip mall at the corner of Ogden and Grand—West Town. One of my favorite areas. I knew the Twisted Spoke well. One of the best burgers in the city; thick, spicy Bloody Marys. I wished I was in there right now ordering a fatboy, debating between whiskey and beer.

But I was across the street, bundled to my chin, blowing frosty air out of my mouth, binoculars in hand. I had pretty good eyesight, so as long as Kim Beans just sat at her table inside the Spoke sipping her drink with her back against a window, I wouldn’t use the binoculars and look like some pervert. Whenever anyone approached her table, the binoculars went up to my eyes. So far thirty minutes had passed, and the only person coming within ten feet of her was a surly overweight guy with facial hair and a bald head who took her order.

My car was running, headlights off, dome light off, heat blasting. Every ten minutes or so I ducked into the car for a quick warm-up, never taking my eyes off Kim’s position.

I stomped my feet in place and bounced up and down. I looked like an ice fisherman doing aerobics.

Inside the Spoke, Kim looked at her watch and nursed her drink, something yellowish, a fruity job. She’d been there now for forty-five minutes. I decided to get back in the car, because I could use my binoculars without being so conspicuous, and the view was good enough—the angle wasn’t quite as good if I wanted to see anyone across the table from her, but I could see Kim just fine, and if she moved even an inch, I’d jump out and get a wider look. Until then, I didn’t feel any particular need to get hypothermia.

An hour later, Kim hadn’t moved an inch. She ordered something from the menu—hummus and pita, probably, just to keep up appearances and not piss off the owner by monopolizing a table without ordering anything.

By eleven thirty, Kim was drumming her fingers. Her back was to me; I could only see her face when she looked toward the door. But in those few moments when I could see her, I wasn’t getting angry from her. Her eyebrows were knit together, her mouth tight. She was concerned.

I was, too.

By midnight she was looking pretty unraveled. There was absolutely, positively no way that she was waiting for a friend or a date. She wouldn’t have stayed two hours past the meet time. And she would have made a phone call, one of those Hey, I’m here: is everything okay? calls, politely telling her friend or date to hurry the hell up.

But she hadn’t made a call. Because whomever she was here to meet, she didn’t have that person’s phone number. Her source wouldn’t want any kind of trail. No e-mail. No texts. No cell-phone calls.

Kim paid her bill and left. She hailed a cab and went back to her place in Lincoln Park. I followed her, watched her walk in and go upstairs to her apartment on the third floor. I was done for the night.

I hadn’t gotten everything I wanted, but I had learned two things.

One: Kim had definitely been planning to meet her source. That part was easy and good. It meant I was on the right path.

The second thing was not so good. It was like an ugly growth: it could be nothing more than an unsightly blemish, but it felt more like a cancerous tumor that was slowly spreading its ugly poison, a tumor that grew larger and uglier the longer I watched Kim Beans wait in vain for her source.

My cell phone buzzed. Caller ID said Amy. My heart kicked up like I’d been hit with a cattle prod.

I reached for the button on my cell, considered not answering. Punched it anyway.

“How’s it going?” Amy asked.

I waited a beat, thought about my answer.

“False alarm,” I said. “She just had dinner and went home.”

That was technically true, but I’d left out how long Kim had been waiting. I left out that I was sure she’d been waiting for her source, that I had no doubt.

Because the second thing I’d learned tonight was that Kim’s source, somehow, in some way, knew not to come tonight.

Somebody tipped off Kim’s source that I’d be watching.

And the only person who would have known that piece of information was on the phone with me right now.

Seventy-Six

NO, I thought to myself when I got home. I was pacing the floor in my bedroom. Impossible. Amy wouldn’t have told anybody about my surveillance. But then how did the source know I was tailing Kim?

Wasn’t I careful? Discreet? I was good at surveillance. It was my specialty.

But I must have blown it somehow. That was the only explanation. I wasn’t careful enough. Kim’s source did some reconnaissance of his own—or her own—and somehow made me and ditched out.

I blew it. And I wouldn’t get another chance.

Yes, I thought to myself. That must be it. It wasn’t Amy. It was my own negligence.

I checked my text messages. Nothing more from Kate since this afternoon, when I promised her I’d be in touch soon. No more pornographic photos. No more guns to her head. No more angry, flirtatious, unstable messages.

Dread suddenly filled me. One reason I hadn’t heard from Kate could be a very, very bad reason. A reason that had something to do with putting a gun to her head.

Screw text messages. I dialed my phone and rang Kate.

Four rings before it went to voice mail. “Just checking in with you,” I said. “Please call.”

Then I added a text message for good measure: How are you doing?